Property Of Sherlock Holmes
by Carroll E. Stewart
Summary: A bomb explodes outside of Baker Street. Sherlock thinks perhaps it is time to call his oldest brother, Sherrinford, because Molly is going to need to be protected. Besides bombs and bullets, Sherlock has a most delightful problem...Dr. Molly Hooper...who looks bloody hell alluring...naked...beneath the Holmes' tartan. Molly has always wanted him. The time has come to oblige her.
1. Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes Chapter 1 - Socks, Sex and Sherlock

The characters of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. The 21st century brilliance belongs to Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat. No infringement on my part is intended.

I have no Beta, Editor or other such charming person. All mistakes are my own.

_For Rae...the Queen of Cupcakes! As per your request..._

_._

Rae had been told that Sherlock Holmes was the best in the business. Her car had been stolen. She was sure in had fallen into nefarious hands so she had made her way to Baker Street. The door was opened by a lovely, older woman.

"I am Mrs. Hudson and I just did the floors, dear, please leave your shoes, here, and go on up."

Going up the stairs barefoot was a sensual experience. It was like she had already begun to get undressed for the man that waited at the top of the stairs. She had read Dr. Watson's blog about Mr. Holmes. "Love him in that hunting cap," she sighed as she knocked on the door and when told to enter, she was hoping that was just a general invitation to anything she wanted.

She stated her business. Damn, pictures did not do him justice!

"Yes, Rae, which would be the bases for your nom de plume. Here you stand barefoot and reeking of coffee...something from Sumatra. Please check with Mrs. Hudson about your lack of shoes before you leave. I do believe that you will find them missing once you exit, here. You both have shockingly small feet and she does so enjoy the latest in footwear, no matter how uncomfortable or the extent of skeletal injury it does to the female anatomy. Fuck-me pumps are a particular kink of hers. I f you go to Hudson's Hellish , you will not want them back. I am sure video has already been uploaded.

Now, your car was not stolen to be used in a series of bank robberies. Instead it was borrowed by your half-sister. When she illegally parked it and it was booted, she has not had the money to pay the ticket and impound fees so it sits in the Marble Arch impound lot."

"Do," she hesitated, eyeing the tall, handsome, brilliant man. "Do I owe you?"

"Well yes," he smiled as he leaned in, his nose delicately about her neck as his tongue took a low, lazy taste.

"What?" came the sigh as she felt her body trying to seek out more of his touch. His maleness was talking to the female that was in her. My gawd, he smelled divine. Like a man. Just soap and water and sex. And those curls that fell in ordered chaos about his face. Angelic in a devilish, way.

"I would judge from the time I leaned and licked your neck you were already wet, anticipating paying for my services in the oldest coin known to man. Just tell me, yes or no."

"Yes," she breathed out heavily.

"I thank you," he said, righting himself. "There is a basket of socks by the door. Please help yourself to a pair on your way out. Good day."

.

Dear Readers,

Do to the adult content of this story, I will only post chapter 1-5, here. The rest of the chapters have been posted on fictionpad. You will need to fill out the site stating that you are 18+.

As always, thanks for reading!

CES


	2. Chapter 2

Clearly she had been dismissed and his interest now lay elsewhere. "How did you know?" she had to ask. Since she could not be eaten by him, she was eaten with curiosity. "How did you know about my half-sister and my auto and the boot? How did you know?"

Turning from the mallet that he was examining, his eyes held hers. For a moment, it was visible to watch him process the last of the information that he had gleaned from the mallet. There was now a different focus on his face. She held no interest for him. She could see that. He had moved on and she was now wasting his time, but she did not care. Curiosity be damned! She was smitten!

"Your accent tells me you are from North London. Two of your diphthongs are Yiddish. And the origin is not German. But Polish. There was a young woman that resembled you three days ago, where I purchased buns for tea. She had the same accent and the same smell of vanilla about her. Her gene pool and yours say the same father. But her eyes were brown and yours are grey. Two different mothers. And then there is the matter that you both have very small feet. Interesting that your father was granted custody of your older sister. However, the way your sister was drinking, alcoholism was probably the reason.

A gentleman there offered to purchase her another Pimms No. 2. Instead they left together. The car was booted and then towed. Marble Arch is the closest impound lot."

The door opened and his eyes went to the male that entered the room. This had to be Dr. Watson. He had a soldier's bearing and for his quick smile, I could tell that he was evaluating the situation. I did not see a weapon, anywhere, but I think this man could kill you as well as heal you.

"Have we a new case?" he asked, being polite.

"No, just a booted auto, now, did you bring the blow torch?"

"Yes, of course, I saw Mrs. Hudson on the way up, ummm..."

"Oh John," he sighed, "we will be requiring another torch. The pyro in her will not be giving that back. We now need to check the batteries in our smoke alarms."

A look passed between the men that I do not think I care to understand.

"I'll just be going," I said as I leaned over and thrusting my bum into the air, I pulled on one sock and then the other. He could smell the vanilla? Damn, impressive. That was good,though,vanilla tamed the wild beast. I just wonder how wild our Mr. Holmes can get?

As the door closed John sat down. "There goes another one that just wants to fuck you. I do not see the attraction."

Picking up the mallet, he regarded John with a quizzical stare. "John, please, I have superior intellect, long legs and I have been told, I am not unpleasant to the eyes. The only reason shewishes to fuck me, as you so crudely phrased it, is so that she may have my highly evolved child and contribute his greatness to the gene pool."

"No, I think she just wanted a quick ride and came prepared, just in case, not caring what you preferred."

Putting the mallet down, he turned to face his roommate. "What makes you say that?"

"When she bent over and pulled on her socks, she waswiggling her posterior around in the air and she was not wearing any knickers. It was a full monty and then some. It was just a little hard to miss the lust that was on her face as she was looking at you from between her legs."

"Oh John," he sighed. "How do you know her ministrations were not intended for you?"

John could only shake his head in wonder. Brilliance came at a price. "Because she had tattooed on her bum  
Property of Sherlock Holmes."


	3. Chapter 3

3 - Seventeen Steps to Hell

Rae stood for a moment with her back against the door and lightly pushed herself into the smooth wood. "M-m-m," she wiggled just a bit, "his wood would be smooth and roundish and a bit overly long. Enough of him to give a girl a very good time." Her mind lingered as she wet her lips. "He will be a lovely salty taste. Just a hint of the ocean from whence we all ascended. But nature dealt him a cruelty. There is none to understand him or serve him with the adoration and submission and the control that I could." With each step that she took, her fantasies preceded her down the stairs. The pain would be exquisite as she lay on these steps and his long, hard, body was above hers, his hips thrusting into her. His hair, like silk between her fingertips, and his head resting gently on her breast, afterwards.

There would be no words passed between them. There would be no need. Their bodies would have said all that was required.

Passing Mrs. Hudson's door, she paused for a moment, wondering how she was going to explain her shoes and the lack there of. Not that they were her favorite, but they were her sister's. Just bad timing and all that. Taking out her phone, she now had to make decisions. Just exactly how much did she reveal? Hailing a taxi, Reggie picked up. "I was there. Saw him and Dr. Watson. Very easy to gain access, actually."

A taxi stopped and she hopped in. It was just best to lie. "He does not know about Shawna so there are no worries."

"There are always worries," Reggie replied.

Sherlock, with his attention to the everyday mundane, heard the change in air pressure against the windows. John heard it at the same time. That hiccup in time, those microseconds as the pressure changed and before the flash when a bomb went off. It had saved his life times over in Afghanistan. "Take cover," both men yelled as they hit the floor and placed their hands over their heads. The smell and the fireball whooshed past their window. Clearing away the glass, both men sat up, their ears still ringing.

"Mrs. Hudson," they both shouted as they started down the stairs, only to see her lying on the steps, midway up, her tea tray broken and scattered. "I don't see any blood, Mrs. Hudson, so upstairs, now," Sherlock hissed. "Get into the bathtub. Now!" he yelled at her as he picked her up and shoved her towards the top of the stairs.

"The crime scene is even now, deteriorating," he stated as he pulled open the door. Taking his cell out of his pocket, he hit one on his speed dial. "Bomb has gone off at 221 Baker Street." Standing in the doorway, he blocked John in.

"Sherlock, there are wounded...let me pass."

"No, not yet. I am assessing the area for a secondary explosion. You know this John. A small explosion so they draw the masses to set off the second." There was a taxi that was the vehicle for the bomb. Everything else on the street was as to be expected. Shock, panic, screams of pain and quiet moaning. Death and destruction. But there was no one who was watching the scene and there was not a box or valise sitting about unattended.

"Sherlock," he felt his friend push on him trying to get past. Bugger that! He began a visual sweep of the upper floors and then the roofs for the tell of a sniper. Safe. It was now safe for John step out. Moving aside, John was out into the street, stopping, mentally doing triage. Those that were gasping for their last breath, death written on their face, he could do nothing for, so he stepped aside, intent on saving those that he could.

Mentally, the manic that lived inside of him spun up and with a frenzied energy began cataloguing, everything. The crime scene had to be preserved. Those that were uninjured were moving into the area to help. There was the wail of sirens in the background and now phones were out. Snapping pictures and running video. That was good, the police could call for those, later, and the good citizens that would come forward would verify what he told them. There was a swarm of uniforms, first responders now on the scene. Police and bomb sniffing dogs were being unloaded. Uniforms were doing crowd, control.

John, the soldier of multiple such horrific experiences, was walking towards him, bloodied. "Fucking cowards," John hissed. The last thing he had done was to remove the door of the bombed taxi off a body. Now that the casualties were in capable hands, he said quietly, when he reached Sherlock. "You need to see this." Together they walked over to the other side of the blackened shell. Several feet away, lay the lower half of a female, face down. Tattooed on her posterior was Property of Sherlock Holmes.

"The game is on," Sherlock said quietly as he noticed photographs being snapped of the deceased.

"That black car is going to be coming for us, is it not?" John said.

"Yes," he said as he took another look around the crowd. "Yes it is."


	4. Chapter 4

4 - Smart is the New Sexy Part IV-

Smart is the New Sexy

Lestrade had walked the perimeter and drawn his own conclusions. Of course, it was all for nothing until Holmes weighed in. There was not much you could keep from Sherlock. So far, though... His name really was not Greg. He had just made that up when he was five. Even his wife thought it was Greg and at times he believed it as well. That was why everyone else did. Sherlock still had his doubts, though. Good on him. There was much in a name and he was here to do a job, not be mocked.

And this was very serious. Murder was one thing, a bombing was the stuff of nightmares. His eyes went once more to the remains of the young woman who was now zipped into a body bag and on a gurney being loaded into an ambulance. With Property of Sherlock Holmes tattooed on her ass, no matter what her name, from this day forward, this was now how she would be known. Well fuck, better than Jack the Ripper... Those photos were probably trending on some feed, somewhere. Since Watson's blog site, Holmes had his share of followers. Hopefully, it would help to identify the young woman. The bomb had destroyed all other I.D. Who, he could only shake his head at the wonder of it all, would be crazy enough to have that tattooed on their ass? Fucking, fucking, bloody fuck! There were a lot of crazies in the world. This he knew from first hand experience.

Thoughtfully, his gaze went back up to the broken windows. Just what the fuck? If she was into anal, no other man was going to park it there. Unless, of course, he hated Holmes. Or if he was into role-playing Holmes. Or if...or if...or if... There were a lot of crazies that admired, Holmes. Men and women. Just why did this crazy have a thing for the crazy that lived upstairs? There was no answer for that. Many nights he had lain in bed trying to figure out the attraction because most folks just did not like Sherlock. But the crazies seemed interested. One morning he put the particulars out there and asked his wife.

"Smart is sexy," she said. "That is one of the reasons I married you."

There was no ready come-back for that. Several females on the force detested Holmes. So maybe smart was not always sexy. Maybe sometimes it was just infuriating. And maybe sometimes smart and good looks were just a lethal combination. It could be sexy but you could also piss someone off that was not as smart and sexy and that could get you killed. But he did not think Holmes was the target. A cell bomb was target specific. So it was the woman that was wanted, dead. The looming question was why? The body was on its way to a special laboratory where it would be analyzed piece by piece along with everything from the crime scene. Bombings had a tendency to upset everyone...and it upset some more than others. His eyes went back to the door that had withstood the blast. It had some scars on it and a burned spot or two, but the lock would still hold and those three people who lived behind that door...well, that is where he was headed, next. There were officers up there right now collecting the glass from the broken windows and taking their statements. When he had first arrived on the scene, processing was well under way and he was not immediately, needed.

Intently he had watched while Holmes and Watson had been told to wait upstairs and the two men begrudgingly walked away. No telling how many lives they had saved. Holmes, because he was an arrogant asshole and crazy enough to stand in the middle of the carnage and look for the killer. Then give chase if he thought that was warranted. Watson, well, he was a doctor and those first minutes of care could mean life or death. John was covered in blood. Fuck AIDS and any other blood-born disease that might lurk out there. The man was fearless, just like his partner.

The man in charge upstairs, Sgt. William Walker, had spent enough time with them, alone. The bomb's squad job was not an easy one but right now he could use some lighter moments before he started working this scene, even if it was at Walker's expense. Up the stairs he went and then he was in the flat. He could hear a couple of officers asking Dr. Watson questions. He was in the bathroom still washing up.

"Lestrade," a bomb expert acknowledged him as he came in and stood next to a wall out of the way.

That was when John walked out and sat down on the other side of Mrs. Watson on the couch. It was interesting to watch the process. The protocol was that all statements were to be given, separately, so that there was no tainting what the witness had seen. Bombings were handled a bit differently because of the shock most victims wore about them. Keep them comfortable but separated if possible. One down, two more to go. Mrs. Hudson was asked to accompany them to a bedroom. Lestrade was not surprised by the reaction. Holmes stood and refused to let her be moved anywhere. Oh, best not to chuckle. Sgt. Walker was easy to read. His shoulders squared a bit. His eyes became harder. The Sgt. took that as a personal challenge. It was just best that Willy learned this lesson for himself.

Lestrade was not going to laugh out loud. When he had made Inspector, he thought his intelligence and cunning had finally paid off. Yes, he was at the top of his game and all listened when he talked. It had taken him more than once to understand that when it came to Holmes, he really was not the one in control of the situation. Would just be best if Willy learned this lesson, quickly. Silently, he watched this little drama play out. Sgt. William Walker had no idea just what he was up against. At times, he did not either, but this brilliant young man had someone very high in the government that had his back. At times he wondered just who Mycroft worked, for, and if Mycroft really was his name.

Sherlock was not budging. Hudson was staying. Sgt. Walker then suggested that do to their lack of cooperation, perhaps they would like to all come to the station and give their statement. Sherlock took out his phone and punching in a number said loudly so that all could hear, "Mrs. Hudson stays with us." It was nice to not be on the receiving end of the phone call that was coming. No matter who you thought you knew, you could not trump who Mycroft Holmes, knew. Sherlock hung up. William's phone rang. It was the Chief of Scotland Yard.

"Mrs. Hudson is stay with her companions," they all heard. "It is past tea-time. I am sure she would find comfort in part of her regular routine. Please, some tea and cake for her."

Yes, there it was. You, Sgt. William Walker, fetch tea for Mrs. Hudson. Just fucking perfect. You fuck with his boy Sherlock, you became a go-for. Was everyone here paying attention to that? Granted, that had been a hard lesson for him to learn, but learn it he had.

"Styles," Sgt. Walker said. "Please, tea and cakes for Mrs. Hudson, Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.

"Something exotic," Holmes said. "Hand picked above five thousand feet. Loose leaf, steeped five minutes. Green. And I like the buns from the Cheshire bakery."

"Oh yes, that sounds lovely," the older woman smiled. "And cream please in my tea. The lemon tea cakes from there are most delightful."

"Two sugars, please," the good doctor nodded. "Nothing sweet for me. An egg sandwich would be most delightful."

"Oh John, really," Sherlock fanned the air. "Sulfur flatulence is most disgusting. You should consider Vegan as a lifestyle choice. That way I would not have to suffer."

Yes, Walker was a most delightful shade of purple. Lestrade thought about adding his name to that order, but enough salt had been rubbed in that open wound. Next time, the Sgt. would know better. Because when he got around to taking the statement from Sherlock, well...he did not think Walker was going to find that smart was the new sexy. Walker just struck him as they type that was going to be furious. Especially when John started farting.

Over tea, Mrs. Watson told her story.

"And you still have her shoes?" Walker could not seem to get past, that.

"Well, yes," she smiled sweetly, "I had just done the floors and the stairs and I do not know why she left here without them," Mrs. Watson said, and you could hear the curiosity in her voice. "They are very nice shoes. Expensive. Just lovely."

"We will be needing those," Walker said. "Thank you Mrs. Hudson for your help," he smiled. William knew he needed to keep that smile in place. Before him sat an interesting trio. Holmes, Watson & Hudson. Sounded like a barristers firm. Holmes would prosecute murderers. Watson would handle the civil disobediences and Hudson, divorce. For as soft as she appeared, she had some steel to her. Last one on the list. Sherlock Holmes. He had heard the stories, of course. Did not believe most of them. There was one or two on the force that thought Holmes was responsible for the bad and tragic things that went on around him. A modern day Jack the Ripper, well out of the reach of the law. He had not thought that possible with the electronic recording devices, everywhere. Now maybe he did. Criminals with relations in high places...just maybe Mr. Holmes was that person of interest.

"Mr. Holmes, why did our victim come to see you?" The young man's intense blue eyes leveled themselves on him.

"She believed her car had been stolen and was being used in bank robberies. There have been two in the past month, but her car only just went missing."

"And what did you tell her?" he asked. Holmes was completely at ease and perhaps smirking at him.

"That her car had been booted and that it was at the Marble Arch impound lot."

"And why would you think that?" That was interesting, why would he think that?

"Her half-sister was at the café where I purchased some buns for tea, on Monday. She left with a man. The car was ticketed and then booted. Marble Arch is the closest lot."

"You know her sister?" Was that his voice? Really? He sounded shocked. What? They had the victim's car in custody?

"No, of course not," Sherlock could not hide the disdain in his voice. "How did you draw that conclusion? I was there to purchase buns and ended up having tea, there, as well. I noticed a brown-eyed woman with a North London accent. Two of her diphthongs indicated Yiddish of Polish descent. Since the sisters were raised by their father, they would have learned his speech patterns."

"Their father raised them?" he stumbled over the words.

"Well yes, the victim's eyes were grey, the older sister's eyes were brown. Brown is dominant."

Lestrade was relaxing against the wall. It felt good not to be scrutinized by those blue eyes that would stare at you and see into your inner most thought processes and declare you incompetent. Then to support that thought, Sherlock would voice it out loud.

"The sister," Sherlock picked up where he had left off, his logic not allowing him to do differently, "was sitting at the counter drinking a Pimm's No. 2."

"Number 2?" William echoed. Seriously, he had to stop this! He could ask reasonable questions!

"Yes, I could smell the whiskey. The way she had slurred a couple of her words, it was not her first drink. She smelled of vanilla, the region where it was grown was very terroir. The bean was dried on the farm and not mixed with different grades. The grey-eyed victim smelled the same. Not ingested, but was probably used in the frosting instead of the baked product. Frosting a cake is something that they could do, together, and the smell would transfer to both. It is an expensive bean. It will not be sold in Marks & Spencer or at Harrod's. This will require an on-line order or a high-end specialty foods-stuff shop."

Walker did not know what to think? Was Holmes kidding? Was he making this up to send them on a wild goose chase while the killer sat right here? It was time to get past the unknown and to something tangible.

"Was she wearing socks when she left, here?"

"Yes, I gave them to her. They are in a basket over by the door."

"I see," Walker said, not for sure that he understood. "Mr. Holmes, have you any idea why she would have Property of Sherlock Holmes tattooed on her posterior?"

"No idea," he said with a slight shake of the head. "I have never seen her before this afternoon."

"Are you bi-sexual?" William kept his voice all business.

"No," Sherlock replied, eyeing the Sgt. "Nor am I interested. I do not believe that this is the time or place for you to ask me out."

"Good for you dear," Mrs. Hudson patted him on the hand. "John is a handsome man and a doctor," she stressed, smiling. "Quite a catch. Anyone would be proud to be seen with him. You have no need to date anyone else."

"What?" John gasped out. "Mrs. Hudson, were you hit on the head?"

"Well no dear," she patted John on the face, "I am just so happy that you two have found each other." Sherlock turned his head and regarded his landlady whom he knew more about than he should.

"John and I are not lovers, Mrs. Hudson, no matter how forward thinking you believe you are, or how badly you want this," he stated matter of fact.

"Nor am I," he turned to face the officer, "bi-sexual, Sgt. Walker. Please continue with your questioning."

Yes, Lestrade congratulated himself. It was a good just to observe for a minute or two longer. John looked like he was going to have a heart attack. Sherlock had his eyes closed and was shaking his head. Walker looked interested in Holmes. Well, maybe he was in between partners.

"The first time I saw the tattoo was downstairs," Holmes said, his focus on Sgt. Walker. "After the bombing."

"So, you did not see it while she was here in your flat?"

"No, I did not but John did."

"Oh," Sgt. Walker turned his focus back on the doctor.

"Yes," John reengaged, "when she bent over to pull on the socks, her posterior was fully exposed and pointing at Sherlock."

"And, why was she pulling on socks...?" William looked at both men.

"Because she had no shoes," Sherlock replied, "and her feet were cold. Mrs. Hudson does so like her clean floors and she had just mopped."

"Oh.." for a moment Walker wondered if he was drowning in information. "And Mr. Holmes, what were you doing during that time?" There was a slight arch to both eyebrows.

"I was observing a mallet," he replied.

Walker thought about what truth he had knew that for a fact: 1. Watson liked women. Holmes liked...? Women? 2. They both liked Mrs. Hudson. 3. Mrs. Hudson liked clean floors.

Lestrade quietly cleared his throat. It was just not polite to laugh. Walker was trying to comprehend all the information he had just been given to him. This poor fucker was on the bomb squad and could talk explosives all day long. Seriously, he should just stick to explosives. Just perhaps, he should take over the questioning and send Sgt. Walker back downstairs. It was time for the evidence bags. Mrs. Hudson's shoes were coming to forensics and then the evidence locker.

"Sgt. Walker," Lestrade stepped forward. "I believe all the glass has been picked up. I will escort them down for the shoes. That will give you another opportunity to look around at the scene. You should have some fresh eyes, by now."

"Thank you," he nodded his head and shrugged his jacket around a bit on his shoulders. "Thank you," he nodded his head to the room and helped his men carry the bags down the stairs.

"I will have to mop, again," they all heard Mrs. Hudson say as they went down the steps. "Not only did I spill the tea and cream and sugar, but now all those feet have tracked all over that bomb residue and brought it inside." Pushing open her door, she stepped in and then stopped. "Someone has been here," she said, turning to look at Sherlock. "I had a cake sitting here on the table. It's gone."

Lestrade motioned for everyone to stand back as he drew his weapon. Walking through each room, after clearing them, he stepped back in and said, "No one is here, now. Are you sure Mrs. Hudson?"

"Yes," she said looking around. "Oh dear," she pointed to her shoe rack that she kept by the door. "All my shoes are gone."

"Mrs. Hudson," the Inspector regarded her. Maybe she had been hit on the head after all. "Your shoes are still there." "Not those shoes," she said, sadness in her voice, "all my fuck-me pumps are missing. Who would do such a thing? Who would steal a woman's fuck-me pumps?"

"Who would, indeed, Mrs. Hudson?" Sherlock said in a shocked voice as he arched an eyebrow at his landlady.

"That would include our victim's shoes, is that correct?" Lestrade said.

"Yes," Mrs. Hudson sobbed. "Yes it would."

The area outside had been righted but it was still a crime scene. Sgt. Walker watched as a black car was waved through and pulled up. Behind it was a truck from a glass company. A woman got out of the car and went inside and Holmes and Watson were escorted out. He watched as they entered the car. Holmes...he was still not for sure what to think of him. Maybe it was best just to not think of him at all. But Holmes had been spot on and he could not let this go.

Walking over to the car, he tapped on the window. It rolled down and those blue eyes were there, staring at him. "How did you know?" he asked. "I am the straightest gay guy I know." Holmes' voice was that of a teacher to a student.

"You have whisker burn on your lips. There is a distinct pattern. To just a causal observer, you just have chapped lips."

"You really are what they say you are..." William's voice trailed off.

"Sgt. Walker, I have no idea what they say I am, but I can assure you I am more than that because they can not grasp the totality." With a slight nod of his head the window started back up and the car was put into gear and left.

"Whisker burn," he chuckled, "so it was not my hard-on that he noticed after all. I don't know if I should be happy about that or insulted."

"Whisker burn," John chuckled. "He had a raging hard-on for you."

"Yes," Sherlock sighed, "but I could not tell him that. I would not give him false hope, John."

"I do not see the attraction," John shook his head.

"Haven't you heard," Sherlock winked at him, "Smart is the new sexy."


	5. Chapter 5

Part V - Virgin by day, Whore by night.

The black car traversed the streets of London. All the lights magically turned to green as they proceeded through the city. "What is that smell?" The young woman sitting in the back seat with them was fanning the air. "Did we run over something dead?" She was coughing as the window next to her rolled silently down.

"That is the smell of a high metabolism," Sherlock replied. "Consider yourself fortunate, I am in the middle and sitting the closest to the source. My eyes are watering, John, please, your window as well. Never again are you to have an egg sandwich."

"The body produces gas," he replied. "As a doctor, it tells me that the body is functioning properly. Most desirous."

"John," his voice was matter of fact, "no one desires that."

"We have been summoned to the halls of The Empire," Sherlock said as they rode the elevator up out of the basement. "John, please tell me your body is still functioning properly. I am most desirous of watching Mycroft don his gas mask."

The doors silently slid open. "Oh look, we have arrived," Sherlock's smile indicated that he was not pleased to be here. Especially when the doors opened into a room and there sat his brother.

"Property of Sherlock Holmes," the voice drawled. "How very proper and old school. Most Doms go with a collaring device of some sort these days. I am most happy to see that in the Holmes family old traditions are still held sacred and practiced.

I must say it was most amusing that every time Mummy and Daddy called your number, it ended up ringing on one of my phones."

"We do so do not wish for them to worry." Sherlock posted a small grin on his face and batted his eyelashes.

"Yes, well..." and there was perhaps a hint of a threat in those two words and then Mycroft stopped. Staring back at him was the face of a machine. There was nothing to read in the eyes. Nothing that spoke to humanity. Sherlock described himself as a high functioning sociopath. That was just a label he offered you so that you could sort him out in your own mind. It also made it easier for his brother to act anyway he wished and not be held responsible for his actions. Mycroft knew this because he had helped to create the young man that sat across from him. As a small child, when Sherlock would cry, as his older brother, he was responsible for explaining how the world, worked. And tears got you nothing. Especially not the attention of your mother and father. The truth was that Sherlock was a genius. And as a small child, had cared deeply. Growing up, Mycroft had no use for a brother that cared deeply.

Just as their mother was a mathematical genius, their father was a linguist, reading every book available in any language. Daddy dearest's I.Q. leveled out with their mother's. Although, to speak to the man, you would not believe he had a brain in his head. That was because speaking to people was not his forte. Reading in obscure languages, was. So looking at him now was a cold, calculating, caustic young man that he had helped to create. Yes, to the world he would appear to have certain traits of a sociopath. Sherlock found that to be very helpful. The truth was, his rude and vulgar ways were not corrected and because of his brilliance, they were even encouraged. As his older brother, he was responsible for that, as well.

His genius brother, on some levels, was also a spoiled brat. Well, he had encouraged him. Sherlock was smarter than he had the right to be and whose intelligence the government wished they had an army, of. Mycroft placed the sympathetic smile back on his face. "You have had a rather most un-elegant day, Sherlock. I know you have already begun working on this but I cannot stress enough just how much bombings are an act of terrorism. And we want all terrorist brought swiftly to justice." Turning his head, Sherlock regarded his roommate and said, "John, have you anything you would care to add to that?"

"I have gas," he said as the odor permeated the air and Mycroft informed them it was past time for them to leave. The car moved quietly through the night.

"Drop me off here," Sherlock said to the driver. Focusing on John he said, "I have the need to roam, to wash the taint of greatness of The Empire from my nostrils."

"I'll check in on Mrs. Hudson," John nodded.

With a nod of his head the car slowed down and he was out the door and off into the night. Sherlock was wandering with purpose. Flashing his St. Bart's hospital badge, he was riding up the elevator and thinking about the piece of window glass that he had in his pocket. With the help of the scanning electron microscope in Molly's lab, he would learn something about the bomb. This was a bit odd. He could hear music softly coming down the otherwise deserted hall. American. Motown. Marvin Gaye. Opening the doors, he could see the glow of electric candles. Sitting in the middle of the autopsy table was a bouquet of roses and a bottle of Chivas Royal Salute. Attached to the neck of the bottle were the lips of Molly Hooper. Sitting the bottle down, she licked her lips.

"Are you dead? Are you a spirit that has come to haunt me? Or are you just a long suffering bastard?"

"I did not die in the blast, if that is what you are referencing," he replied.

Picking up the bottle, she took another drink. "Oh, so it is long suffering bastard. I knew," she pointed her finger at him, "I knew that if you were alive that eventually you would show up here." Tears were streaming down her face and with one hand she unsuccessfully tried to combat them. "A bomb went off in front of 221 B Baker Street this afternoon. My friends live there. I was hoping to hear from one of them, anything, so I would know that they were all right. I even called St. Joe's, the hospital closest to that address to see if one of my friends had been brought there after the blast. Then I called the overflow hospitals, asking if perhaps my friends had been brought there. No, not one of my friends had been brought in. So," tilting back the bottle, she was gasping this time after she set it down, "so, I brought my birthday flowers and my birthday bottle of Royal Salute to the one place I knew at least one of my friends would eventually show up. When I first got here, I was just hoping to share my small birthday celebration with you, as you can see. Fine scotch, beautiful flowers that my parents sent to me. I thought, perhaps there would be a toast to my continued good health, your continued success, my fucking bad luck at picking men. Or would that be my fucking lack of picking men?"

Laughing she took another drink. "Maybe I should switch to women," she giggled. Then her eyes turned furious as she looked at him. "But then, I don't think Irene Adler would have called me either."

Hell hath no fury like a woman's wrath, he had heard the saying, misquoted. But this had the appearance of being spot on.

"Did you fuck her Sherlock? Did she tie you down and make you beg for her favors? Did you tell her that you loved her after she made you beg?"

"You are drunk," he said as he walked towards her and reached for the bottle.

"You are fucking right about that because without the alcohol, Molly Hooper would never be able to have this conversation with you. But for right now, I am the mouse that roars," she said with pride. Smiling, she had another drink. With a wave of her hands she continued on. "With the candles, it is quite not so death like, it looses that cold metal edge, don't you think? Do you ever loose that cold metal edge, Sherlock? Did you loose it with her?" "

You are very drunk," he said taking the bottle from her.

"The dead tell me a lot of things, Sherlock. The living tell me that my lips are too small, my lipstick is too red. That I dress up for my boyfriend and that I can't wrap presents worth shit unless it is for someone I care, about. Of course, that is my problem, is it not. I care," she was crying, again. "It is my birthday and a bomb goes off in front of your flat and I have not one clue if you are alive or dead," she wiped at the tears.

Sitting up straighter, her voice became very serious. "Oh, but wait. There is more. Just splattered every where you look is a poor woman who has a tattoo on her ass that says Property of Sherlock Holmes. You know," she wiped her eyes, "there was a part of me that was hoping it was Irene. But then, once my rational thinking self engaged, because I am a very smart woman, you fucking man whore," she seethed and then became rational, once more. "I knew that it was not. She would never do that. You would be the one wearing the tattoo. See, smart," she pointed to herself. "I am able to cobble a few facts together on my own. I am a doctor, you know, correct?" Hissing that at him, she slapped him.

Wincing, "Yes," he responded, quietly.

"You are such a cliché," she laughed. "You know that, right. Sherlock Holmes is just like all men. He wants a virgin by day and a whore by night. And well, of course whatever Mr. Sherlock Holmes wants, Mr. Sherlock Holmes gets. Mouse Molly to serve his needs in the hours between dawn and dusk; a certified, tax paying whore to serve his needs between the sheets what ever time of day he has the itch. Mouse Molly is just not exciting enough for you Sherlock?" Slapping him again, she smiled. "You think I don't know deviance and kink. I see it multiple times a day. I see the bruising that is left on the body. The flesh ripped away by whatever was used for the lashing. The fisting that has ripped the anus. I find it most exciting," she spit at him. "Why," she snarled, "I usually keep a riding crop stashed here in my lab but I loaned it to one of my colleagues down the hall. Why," she leaned into him, and grabbed him by the collar, "maybe I should put a bomb in my cell. After all, Irene did. And apparently so did Property of Sherlock Holmes. Is that the kind of excitement you need to get off?"

"You are drunk," he said quietly.

"Yes," she patted him on the face. "Yes I am. So, since I cannot satisfy you sexually, I will just be taking myself where I am thought to be pretty and smart and my lips not too small or my lipstick too red. There are men all over this city that would be happy and proud to just have tea with me. Just to be seen in my company...but is my birthday and I have a desire to be kissed." Taking the bottle from him she had another drink. Pushing past him, she turned on the lights, put the roses on her desk, turned off her candles and stashed the bottle. "Turn off the lights when you are finished," she smiled at him as she put on her coat and closed the door.

.

For the past thirty minutes he had been running tests on the glass. They did not reveal anything he did not already know. It just confirmed what he expected. Putting on his coat and scarf, he took one last look around the room. The splash of red the roses added to the room could just as very well been the blood he had seen today from bodies that had been blown apart in the street. Turning off the lights, he took the elevator to the ground floor. When she had slapped him, that had been the first real connect to humanity that he had encountered, today. Everything else had been clinical. Distant. Detached. Then the bombing...which just caused the hatred in him to burn because he had not been able to stop it. Then Mycroft. Anger mixed with a certain amount of respect. Then Molly. Her anger was what he needed to once more be pulled back into this world. Yes, he was a fucking man whore. He knew she would be worried and he knew she would be here and she would be upset. What he had not counted on was her being drunk and leveling both barrels at him.

Now that he was out in the fresh air, he wished he had brought the bottle. Fifty year old scotch...well, he knew where she kept it in her desk. When he needed something to take the edge, off, he would keep that in mind. "What are you doing, Sherlock?" he asked himself. "You should have turned left to take The Tube. Instead you are walking towards Molly's flat. Molly," he sighed. "She wants a birthday kiss." There was Simmi's Pub on the next block. Nice place. You could drink at the bar, eat at a table and they even had a small dance floor. "She would feel safe there and her flat is just a few doors down."

Entering the establishment, he noted the two hundred year old walnut floors, furnishing and crown molding. The Crypt was where there was dancing. Going down the steps, the music got louder. Then the MC was saying, "All right lads. We have a Princess in the Crypt, tonight, looking for her Prince Charming to rescue her. She needs a birthday kiss. So, the line starts over here on the right. Molly was standing at what could only be the front of the line and waving at the crowd. Men were cheering and started lining up. His virgin by day was not going to be anyone in this crowd's whore by night. "She wants to be kissed," he smirked, "I think I can do that."

There were about twenty-five men that he walked past to the front of the line. "Hey," the men at the front of the line accosted him, "wait your turn." The manic inside of him took hold. Staring back at the men was a being very high on the evolutionary scale. Not only in intellect, but fighting skills as well. "I think not," his voice was slow and measured as he pushed contempt into each word. Extending his hand to Molly, where before there had been joviality on her face, there were now tears.

"Come, Birthday Princess, your coach, awaits." Walking with her over to her table, he helped her with her coat. Slinging her bag around her neck and resting it against her body, he put his arm around her shoulder and together they walked out.

When they were outside she took a deep breath and said, "I'm drunk."

"I know," was his reply.

"Where are we going?" Looking up at him, she could not see his face. He was staring straight, ahead.

"Your flat," he responded.

"You know where I live?" Her voice was low and full of disbelief.

"Of course I do, Molly Hooper," she could hear the smile in his voice. "0110 D, St. Bart's Row. Now, your key please. We are almost there." Arm in arm they went down the steps.

Handing him the keys, he unlocked the door and walked with her to the end of the hall.

"I'm drunk," she said.

"I know," he smiled as he unlocked the door.

"I want to remember that you walked me home," the tears started, again.

"You will," he smiled at her as he bent his head and kissed her lightly on the lips. Pulling back from the kiss, she sniffled a bit and then tiptoeing up, ran her fingers through his curls and then her mouth tentatively found his. His mouth had captured hers, his tongue, just lightly grazing her lips. He was doing something with his hands. Oh...unlocking the door.

The door opened and then they walked in. Closing it, the deadbolt engaged and then Sherlock was helping her with purse, her scarf, her coat. Taking his off, he tossed those things into the chair on top of hers. "Keys are here, on the table," he said, as he pulled her into him and kissed her lightly all over her face.

"I'm drunk," she was crying now.

"I know," he smiled. "Bedroom," he winked at her.

"This way," she took his hand and started towards a door. Sweeping her up into his arms, he walked with her, her arms around his neck, weeping, "I was horrible to you."

"I know," he kissed the top of her head. "Now, here we are. Out of those clothes," he turned her around and unzipped the back of the dress. Out came her arms from the sleeves and the dress gracefully fell past her hips and puddled on the floor. His lips traced kisses up and down her spine as his hands caressed her stomach.

"I'm drunk," she was wiping her eyes.

"I know," he whispered in her ear as he disengaged and turned back the covers on the bed. "Now, into bed."

"Are," she turned her head and searched his face, "are you leaving?"

"No," he kissed the tip of her nose.

Watching him, he walked out of the room and the hall light went out and all that was left was the nightlight from the bathroom. Sliding into bed, she waited. In her heart, she wished and wanted him to join her here. Making promises to whoever would listen. In reality, she was listening for his footsteps as they continued to walk down the hall and then there would be the click of the lock. There were soft rustling sounds, as he got undressed. It was only a few moments before he joined her there. Reviling in the warmth that his nude body was radiating into her cold one, she shuddered in happiness.

"I'm going to sleep now," she whispered.

"I know," he pulled her body into his. "Happy Birthday Molly Hooper," he said softly as he heard her breathing settle into a regular sleep rhythm. "This man whore is so grateful that you care."

.

.

Dear Readers,

Do to the adult content of the following chapters, the rest of the story is posted on FictionPad. My FF bio page tells you how to access the site.

However, I think that if you go to my carroll e stewart, all one word, word press with a dot and a com and find a link for the Property of Sherlock Holmes that I have posted, if you follow the link, I think it will take you straight to the site. Do not click on the picture, but on the red link, itself.

Many thanks...

As always, thanks for reading!

...the spirit transcends the body...

CES


End file.
